The Third Riel Conspiracy

by Stephen Legault

  Durrant scanned the surrounding landscape. The shot seemed to have come from the south, along the bluffs above the river. There was a dense tangle of tall willows there. He immediately considered that there might be more than one man lying in wait, so he turned and scanned the country to the north. The nearest cover was nearly five hundred yards off, a low cluster of willows and a few aspens that might conceal a man. His quick visual reconnaissance complete, Durrant had to decide what action to take next. Exasperating this effort, however, was a wave of self-loathing at being thrown into the dirt, without cover and poorly armed at that.

  How could he have let this happen again? He should have insisted on interviewing Jasper Dire in the safety of the zareba. He knew he had little right to give orders to these men; his investigation was not official. Dire had led him here, even turned and sat his horse in the road as they spoke, and allowed some distance to be put between him and his fellow scouts. It suddenly occurred to Durrant that Jasper Dire himself may have doubled back along the rim of the river and was fixing the sights of his Winchester on him now.

  That was just one possibility. It was just as likely that the man Durrant sought had been alerted when he left the zareba.

  Durrant laid his Enfield on the road and reached down to hike up the left leg of his wool trousers. There was a thick smear of blood where the prosthetic had bit into his stump when he was thrown. He did his best to reaffix the leg using its suction socket and then rolled down the blood-wet pant leg. He picked up his pistol.

  Durrant fixed his eyes on the hedgerow to his south. If he waited long enough, someone would come along the trail and find him. It was the safest course of action: when his horse returned to the zareba riderless, the teamsters would send out a party to look for him.

  Jasper Dire was certainly in the best position to frame Terrance La Biche. If he was working with Sub-Inspector Dickenson, the two of them could have easily planted the pistol to prove La Biche’s guilt. What connections were there between Dire, Wake, and Dickenson?

  Durrant zeroed in on the association: all three men hailed from Regina. While the men fighting at Batoche and Fish Creek were from all across the Dominion, these three men called Regina home. Durrant thumbed the worn hammer of his Enfield. This postulation was not getting him any further ahead. He wouldn’t just wait for some rider to come along and find him, hapless as a fish out of water, lying in the dirt of the road. Durrant forced himself to stand. He felt the uneasy sensation in his chest as he imagined the shooter zeroing in on him. Instead of walking back toward Batoche and the safety of the zareba, Durrant turned south and, with the Enfield held at his side, walked toward the verge of willows.

  Travelling over the rough, muddy ground was hard for Durrant. He planted his feet carefully, measuring each step against the risk of falling. He scanned the shrub border before him, pistol pointing toward the unknown gunman. He made the willows after a few minutes of slow, careful walking and, using the Enfield, parted the bushes. Durrant looked back at the Humboldt Trail. He could see where his horse had thrown him. He could see his own path through the frost-tipped grass; it traced a dark line through the silvery dew. The frost was what allowed him to see clearly where his assailant had been. Behind the first row of willows, not twenty feet from where Durrant had entered the verge, he saw a place where a man had lain, the grass dark from the man’s heat. And there, caught up in the vetch, two shell casings from a .32-calibre rifle.

  Durrant picked them up and slipped them into his pocket. He peered into the darkness of the hedge, the barrel of his Enfield tracking an arc across his line of sight. A branch snapped. Durrant could see the path his shooter had taken. The world became a tunnel through which he peered toward the possible threat. Durrant heard movement in the tangle of growth, and he quietly thumbed the hammer on the pistol, the cylinder rotating as a .38-calibre cartridge was positioned beneath the firing pin. Time seemed to halt.

  Something red moved in his peripheral vision. Durrant quickly swung his pistol toward the motion. Could this be a red jersey? He straightened his left arm, aiming. He drew a steadying breath.

  A red fox stepped from the willows just fifteen feet from where Durrant crouched. He released a long breath and the fox, startled, bolted for cover.

  THEY MET HIM after he’d walked half a mile toward the zareba. Garnet Moberly was riding at a gallop in the fore, three other men from the Survey Division following close on his heels. They had the horse tethered behind them, and it was breathing hard and sweating. “Are you all right?” Garnet dropped from his mount and scanned the country around him. He had his rifle in his hands.

  “I’m fine, Garnet. No need for the cavalry.” The other riders had fanned out around them and were scanning the open ground for signs of trouble, rifles held at the ready.

  “What happened?”

  Durrant dug into his pocket and produced the two shell casings. He held them out in his hand for Garnet to see.

  Garnet took them in his hand and considered them. “You’re not hit?”

  “Not even close. My horse spooked pretty good and threw me. I went and looked for the shooter, but this is all I found. The gunman is long gone, and the woods there along the riverbank are a maze of animal trails. I don’t think we’ll find anything now.”

  Garnet looked down at the shell casings in his hand. “Thirty-two calibre. Same round as fired from the Winchester. Standard issue.”

  “Not for the Métis.”

  IT WAS WELL past the noon hour when Durrant rode into the zareba. He watched the faces of the men he passed with interest, hoping to detect some glance, some sign, that might give away the identity of his attacker. But he could see none.

  He rode straight to the stables and dismounted, leaving the horse with a young stable hand. He took his cane from the cinch strap of the saddle and headed off to meet Saul Armatage. Passing a buckboard wagon, he overheard a heated argument between Sub-Inspector Dickenson and a well-dressed, elegant-looking man who wore a beaver-felt hat and a long, dark heavy coat. Durrant stepped back behind the wagon but could not make out what they were saying. He decided on a more direct approach and simply turned the corner once more and kept on walking.

  “Good afternoon, Sub-Inspector,” he said as he walked past the men, trying not to betray the ache in his leg and back from his fall.

  “Wallace,” said Dickenson by way of greeting, his closely set eyes regarding Durrant contemptuously. The man in the beaver-felt hat turned to consider the one-legged man.

  “Who is your companion, Sub-Inspector?”

  The well-dressed man scowled. “I am Stanley Block. And who might you be?”

  “Sergeant Durrant Wallace, North West Mounted Police.” Durrant extended his left hand.

  “Mr. Block owns The Regina Examiner.”

  “Always a pleasure to meet an esteemed member of the fourth estate. What brings you to Batoche?”

  “I am here to cover this great expedition of General Middleton’s army.”

  “I see. It has been something of a grand adventure,” responded Durrant.

  “Have you been involved in the fighting?”

  “No, sir, I just arrived at Batoche four nights ago. The first shots I heard were just this morning on the Humboldt Trail!” Durrant let his gaze slip from Block to Dickenson.

  “Do tell, Sergeant,” said Block.

  “Not much to tell.” Durrant watched for a reaction. “Likely just someone out hunting for his supper.”

  “Mr. Block”—Dickenson shifted his weight from his left to his right foot—“I must attend to my prisoners.”

  “Have you been out hunting today?” Durrant asked Dickenson.

  Dickenson’s face seemed to curl at the edges. Durrant could see the tips of several teeth, like bared fangs, press against his lower lip. “If I had been, I would have certainly bagged my prey.”

  Block turned back to Dickenson. “Sub-Inspector, I suppose that we will have to settle the matter some other time.”

  D
urrant watched Dickenson stalk away, then turned to Block. “Sounded like the two of you were having words, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Nothing of consequence. A newspaperman has got to do his digging, is all. I had wanted a word with the murderer of Reuben Wake. He was a well-known member of the community in Regina and his killing will cause a stir.”

  “Dickenson would not permit it?”

  Block shrugged. “There’s always another way, Sergeant.”

  “Indeed there is. What is the story you have to tell about what happened here at Batoche, Mr. Block?”

  “There are many stories to tell in a campaign such as this. The battle itself is just one. It is the human element that enthralls readers and makes them wish to turn the page and buy the paper again the next morning.”

  “And that is what it is all about, is it not, Mr. Block?”

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “Selling papers.”

  “I take offence to that, sir.”

  “Take it if you wish, Mr. Block, but I am only speaking the truth of the matter. You are in Batoche to print stories and sell your papers?”

  “You make it sound tawdry. There is nothing wrong with a businessman wishing to sell his wares.”

  “I agree insomuch that the manufacture of those wares comes at such a cost—”

  “There is no basis for such an accusation. Riel has been spoiling for a fight since ’74. He should have been hanged then for the death of Thomas Scott. Instead Macdonald let him evade capture and seek his asylum in the United States of America. If Riel had been a Protestant and a Liberal that would never have happened. I am only reporting on the goings-on. The press has had no hand in creating this conflict whatsoever.”

  “Every word you have penned has been fuel for the fire of this rebellion.”

  Block shook his head. “The press is an important part of our democracy in this young nation, Sergeant. We hold the elected representatives in Ottawa to account. We press the case of these backwoods locales with the elected officials. Someone must be made to answer for what has happened here.”

  “Is that so? I take it then, sir, that you are not a member of the Conservative press?”

  “If I must take a side, I would say that I am a Liberal, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is presenting the truth of the story.”

  “Truth is a matter of perspective. I’m not certain that the truth of what has happened here, and at Fish Creek, Duck Lake, and Cut Knife Hill, will ever really be known.”

  “You are too young a man to be a cynic, Sergeant. I suspect you have come by your scars honestly, and that has sullied your perspective on mankind.”

  Durrant regarded the newspaperman a moment. “You say that Mr. Wake was a prominent member of Regina society.”

  “I said he was well known, not prominent. He owned a livery stable and so enjoyed a station in society on par with other businessmen of a certain class. He was known to be a member of several clubs in our fair city.”

  “Was he well thought of?”

  “I cannot say, Sergeant. I believe he has had his share of ups and downs in business, and as such may have made some enemies.”

  “Might any of those have followed him here?”

  “I can’t see how they would. Look around you, sir. Do you see many men among these ruffians who might fall into the class of the business elite?”

  “Present company excluded, Mr. Block?”

  “I take offence to that!”

  “In my experience, it is usually a sign that the arrow has found its mark.”

  “Sergeant, what exactly is your purpose in levelling such accusations at me? I am here to report to the readers of my paper a first-hand account of the battle and subsequent apprehension of the criminals Dumont and Riel. Nothing more.”

  “Mr. Block, you could have sent a mere scribe. I find your presence here among these . . .”—Durrant looked around him at the soldiers—“how did you put it? Ruffians? I find your presence here and interest in Mr. Wake and his alleged attacker Mr. La Biche curious to say the least.”

  “Sir, you are out of line. Assistant Commissioner Crozier will hear my complaint about your accusations.”

  “I report to Superintendant Steele. He’s presently engaged hunting down the Willow Cree. I’m sure he will entertain your concerns when he returns from the wilderness. In the meantime, Mr. Block, know that I have my eye on you.”

  Block puffed up his chest and made to adjust his perfect scarf before he strode off. Durrant watched him go, thinking that for the second time that day he had met a fox.

  SAUL ARMATAGE AND Garnet Moberly were waiting for Durrant. Saul offered him coffee. “How is the leg?”

  “It’s all right. Blasted thing came out of its socket when I was thrown.”

  “Durrant, you’re bleeding right through your trousers. For Christ’s sake, let me look. I’m going to need to attend to this. You’ll need stitches and I’ll have to re-bandage the leg. You need to—”

  Durrant cut him off. “Don’t tell me to stay off of it, Saul. I won’t. It’s taken me five years to get back on a horse and earn the respect of Steele and the others. I won’t play lame while there is important police work to be done.”

  Saul set to work on the leg, taking what he needed from his haversack. “Tell us what you have learned.”

  Durrant sat on a stump and drank his coffee and then accepted a plate of pork and beans while Saul cleaned and then stitched his leg. Durrant flinched only once and told them of the events of his conversation with Jasper Dire up to his confrontation with Stanley Block. “And what about you gentlemen?” Durrant asked. “What have you learned?”

  Garnet spoke first. “I spent the best part of the morning inquiring after our gravediggers. None will attest to burying Reuben Wake or admit to knowing the whereabouts of his corpse. It seems as if he has been spirited from these parts. We shall have to turn our eyes farther afield, I fear.”

  “If you wished to dispose of a body in these parts, Saul, as a medical doctor, where would you do it?” asked Durrant.

  “I suppose the best way to take leave of such a thing would be to consign it to the Saskatchewan and let it drift downstream.”

  “He could be halfway to Prince Albert by now, Durrant,” added Garnet.

  “Speaking of the river,” said Saul, “upon making my rounds this morning I had a moment to speak with Jacques Lambert. At first the scouts who discovered this man felt that he, as others had, might have been trying to reach the zareba. Upon closer inspection they discovered that he was armed only with a knife, and that he had made cuts to his own wrists. The men quickly bandaged them and, with Lambert protesting, brought him to Middleton’s doctor for care.

  “Lambert tells me that he was recruited to fight for Dumont; he left his farm in the care of his wife and two teenaged children. A boy not more than eleven, the girl just fourteen. Word travelled to Lambert’s ears that the farm lay in the path of the advancing army of Middleton, and that some of the men had taken to looting. He discovered on the first day of the battle that several men had looted his wares and burned his farm to the ground. And, as you have heard, his daughter was raped.”

  “Blue Jesus,” said Durrant. “I don’t suppose this Lambert heard the name of the lout who committed this foul deed.”

  “I’m afraid he did. He knew that the man who committed these atrocities was Reuben Wake.”

  ELEVEN

  THE MISSION RIDGE

  JACQUES LAMBERT LAY WITH ANOTHER man in the back of a wagon, a thin wool blanket pulled up around his chin. His face carried the countenance of the defeated. Durrant watched him from a distance. “Can he be moved?” he asked Saul.

  “There’s really very little wrong with him. His wounds are healing well. He’s only spoken to me since arriving, and just those few words at that. I fear that maybe the mental trauma he has suffered has robbed him of his faculties.”

  “What say we take him to the church and provide him the co
mfort he needs to tell his tale?”

  “Very well, we can ask.” Saul led Durrant to the wagon and introduced him to the infirm man. “This man is Durrant Wallace,” said the doctor. “He’s a Mounted Police officer, and has been asked to investigate what happened on your farm.” Saul saw Durrant look at him and then back at Lambert. “He would like to talk with you. What do you say we take a little walk over to the rectory and you can tell him what you told me?” Saul helped Lambert stand. “Let me give you a hand.”

  Lambert hadn’t walked in four days, so they started slowly. Saul gave him one of the cook’s biscuits and a cup of tea, which revitalized him. “You’re looking into the trouble at my farm?” asked Lambert.

  “We’re looking into it. We’re going to do what we can.”

  “If you don’t have an objection, I will tell it from the start. The context is important to what I’ve got to tell.” Lambert spoke in easy English, and Durrant detected the diction of a man who had been schooled in Ontario as Durrant himself had. “After the fighting at Fish Creek, General Dumont pulled his men back to Batoche. We thought for sure that Middleton would push through, but instead he camped out for two weeks. It gave us a lot of time to get the town ready. We knew that Middleton would come up the Humboldt Trail, and attack us here, along the Mission Ridge.” Lambert pointed a finger toward where the land dropped down to the town of Batoche. “Dumont didn’t want Middleton to gain the height of land above the town, so we aimed to make our stand here. We’d seen the four field guns that he had with him when we clashed at Fish Creek and we didn’t want to give him a clear shot, so we dug in. We had rifle pits throughout the woods around the church and to where the St. Laurent Road crosses La Jolie Prairie. And there, along the cemetery.” Lambert pointed and started to walk in that direction. Durrant and Saul followed.

  “That’s where I was, the cemetery. We waited for two weeks. We knew that Middleton was taking his time. We had our scouts out along the Humboldt Trail and that’s how it came to pass that I learned about my farm.

  “On the morning of the ninth of May, around seven o’clock, we got word that the field force was sending a steamer up the river.”